


Love Thy Enemy

by Icarus5800



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Abuse of Metaphors and Adjectives, Alley Sex, First Time, Intensity, M/M, Old Virgins Being Dumb, Oops, RST, UST, Weird Mixture of All Canons, handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-08
Updated: 2013-05-08
Packaged: 2017-12-10 18:17:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/788697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Icarus5800/pseuds/Icarus5800
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Valjean and Javert at the barricades.  They shouted at each other some, things got intense, they did it, they said goodbye.</p><p>^100% accurate summary.</p><p>
  <i>Without pausing to consider the absurdity of their situation or any potential consequences, for once Valjean dared to permit himself the sheer, unbounded joy of giving free rein to his desires. His erection strained against the stiff fabric of his trousers, aching to break free. He did nothing to free himself, needing to savour the unbearable constricting tightness for a while longer yet, intuitively knowing that the eventual release would be all the sweeter for it.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Thy Enemy

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by **[this piece of art](http://m24601.tumblr.com/post/49574217058/you-talk-too-much)** by the lovely m24601. Beta-read by the my idol, drcalvin-senpai.
> 
> It should go without saying that all remaining mistakes and idiocy are my own.

Valjean shoved Javert ahead of him into the deserted side alley. The night appeared almost calm here, away from the spread of dead bodies and broken furniture, yet neither tranquility nor night did much to temper the boiling heat. The barricade was silent; a temporary, uneasy ceasefire reigned between the students and the National Guardsmen, a period of peace that would not—could not—last. Most of the students and a number of the soldiers as well would be dead before the next sunset, though they might yet live to witness the sun rise in glory one final time. The little boy he had warned to stay away from this wretched place had not listened, and was even now facing the same perils and probable fate as the revolutionaries.

They who had never known the slavery and oppression of physical chains were willing to die for an ideal by the lofty name of Liberty. Far above the bloody battlefield, Liberty stood upon the clouds and gazed down at her worshippers. They had made their choice; they were far too stubborn and tenacious to be persuaded. He knew with a dark gravity that he could not save all men, and had never allowed himself to entertain the conceit that he might play Christ. Their futures—except possibly that of Marius—were out of his hands. However, mortal and weak as he was, he could be certain to at least save one man tonight.

He might have known that even compared to all those voluntary martyrs at the barricade, this man could well prove the most resistant to being saved.

In the stillness, the sound of Javert’s breathing seemed unnaturally harsh and laboured. The ropes had not been kind to the inspector’s neck, leaving angry marks that made Valjean wince in sympathy. He had been unprepared for the sight of the dignified inspector so utterly helpless, on his knees with his hands bound before him and his head in a noose. To witness the proud man made to suffer such humiliation brought to his chest a queer sensation that was a conglomeration of anger, stupefaction, sorrow, and a most peculiar protectiveness that he, in truth, had no right to feel. Undoubtedly the inspector himself would never permit it should he learn; death was likely far more acceptable an alternative to that rigid mind than being protected by a convict. Well, Valjean thought, he would simply have to deprive Javert of the choice then.

“It would appear Providence has ordained that we must meet again, Inspector Javert. I should say that the circumstances are rather unexpected,” Valjean whispered as he flicked his knife from its sheath, holding it before him with a steady arm, gleaming blade pointing up at the inoffensive heavens. It was the arrival of deliverance in the guise of danger.

“This is what you have wanted all along.” Accusation was wholly absent from the inspector’s raspy voice; such a statement delivered as plain, absolute truth was itself a condemnation.

Valjean said nothing in denial or agreement, only advanced upon the inspector slowly, ever so slowly, as one might a cornered wolf.

Javert laughed, a terrible, ugly sound. “Yes, avenge yourself upon me, Jean Valjean! Come, don’t dawdle. I am ready.” There was a triumphant glint in his eyes as he watched the approach of the knife in Valjean’s grip. “This is fitting. A knife in the hands of a thief shall end the life of a police spy. The prey shall destroy the hunter. Poetic justice, no?”

Though he was loath to admit it, Javert’s certainty that he would be killed—moreover, that Valjean would kill him—upset Valjean in a way he did not care to examine.

Valjean sighed, suddenly feeling all the weariness of his accumulated years settle upon his aging bones, invisible chains bowing his head and back. “You talk too much, Javert.”

With a single, decisive swipe of the knife, the ropes were cut.

“You are free.”

Javert did not seem to have heard the words. His face betrayed a sort of crazed bewilderment, a total denial of intolerable reality. He turned his head this way and that, searching, grasping for a possibility that would make sense and rebuild a solid foundation beneath his shaky legs. He seized it, and became the calm, imperturbable inspector once more.

“You will shoot me in the back,” he threw at Jean Valjean with all the contempt he could muster.

Valjean flinched. He shut his eyes briefly, then opened them again with a reluctance that was too heavy for words. He asked in a hopeless, hopeful tone, “Is that what you think of me, Javert? You have seen me at my worst and best; you alone possess the secrets of my past. Knowing all that you do, you truly believe me capable of this thing?” Unconsciously he had advanced upon Javert, his expression awful and harrowing. It was that expression and not fear of violence which drove Javert back until he was trapped between the solid wall of the alley and Valjean’s shuddering form. Valjean rested his palms upon the wall on either side of Javert’s head, not to cage the inspector but to support his own faltering weight. The air between them felt too thick to breathe. A mere few inches separated their faces. “Tell me!”

Javert snarled, more terrible than his laughter. “What else could one reasonably expect from a convict? Your lot could never change. You may put on a false face and conceal your true nature for a time, yes, but the truth will always, _always,_ come to light. One would be a damned _fool_ to dare trust otherwise.”

“Well then, I tell you that you are wrong, Javert!” Both were perspiring freely, the tension a hot, suffocating pressure beating down on them. “More than a convict, I was—I _am_ —a man. Even behind bars and in chains, I had been a man. Man will err, man will fall, yet by the grace of God, man also retains that miraculous capacity of righting himself and walking erect again. Redemption, Javert, is more than a myth. To deny this is to deny the ultimate sacrifice of the Lord’s son upon the cross.” Valjean pressed his forehead to Javert’s, as if believing that the intimate contact would make it possible for the words to sink in. He captured Javert’s eyes with his own, unblinking, desperately pushing all the conviction in his soul through this portal, this newly established connection, into Javert. “I tell you that man can change!”

“No.” The single word dropped from Javert’s lips like a delicate petal, tremulous, dancing in the wind, uncertain of itself. It was not a denial for Jean Valjean. “No.”

Javert closed his eyes. “No.”

The silence that ensued was like a shroud. After an infinity of seconds, Valjean laid one hand upon Javert’s cheek, caressing lightly, and spoke, “Why do you refuse to _see,_ Javert? Throughout our long acquaintance, have I ever harmed you? Your life is safe in my hands.” Then, with a perfect and touching earnestness, he added, “Trust me.”

“Can I?” The voice that replied was too close to hysteria; it must have come from some other person than the unmovable Inspector Javert.

It did come from someone else, Valjean realized. It came from Javert. Convict and guard, mayor and inspector—masks and façades and roles and skins that one might shed. In essence, they were both _men._

“Yes,” said one man to another. They emerged at last from behind the multitude of masks with which they hid themselves whenever the other was near, too fearful for their fragile hearts.

The two men leaned forward at the same time, sealing the promise with a chaste touch of lips.

They had barely parted before their lips met again in a searing kiss, the force of their mutual attraction built up through decades of denied longing flooding out in a ceaseless torrent, a deafening cataract they were powerless to stem. They allowed themselves to be swept away by the deluge, holding on tightly to each other as they swayed together in this vast sea of their passions, drowning with pleasure.

They kissed with the fervour of a drunkard long-deprived seeking to quench his agonizing thirst. The years had aged the wine well, and its taste was addicting.

In their eagerness and inexperience, they had forgotten to breathe, thinking perhaps they could sustain life by the flames in their souls. But fire was a poor substitute for air. Valjean backed away reluctantly, and they drew great, ragged breaths to make up for the previous deprivation. The lack of contact was disappointing. Acting on primal instinct, Valjean grabbed Javert’s hips and brought them together, gasping at the unknown sensation that rushed through him like lightning. Javert’s pupils were wide and dilated, his gaze fixed upon Valjean with something akin to wonder.

Without pausing to consider the absurdity of their situation or any potential consequences, for once Valjean dared to permit himself the sheer, unbounded joy of giving free rein to his desires. His erection strained against the stiff fabric of his trousers, aching to break free. He did nothing to free himself, needing to savour the unbearable constricting tightness for a while longer yet, intuitively knowing that the eventual release would be all the sweeter for it.

Far too many layers of clothing separated them, and Valjean was overwhelmed with the urge to feel Javert’s living warmth beneath his fingertips. With fumbling hands he removed Javert’s cravat and undid the buttons of Javert’s waistcoat, letting both fall unchecked to the ground. His own jacket followed, and his cravat was untied soon after, hanging loosely about his neck like one of those careless youths.

Reaching down, he traced the outline of Javert’s prick through the coarse linen trousers that were a part of his revolutionary disguise. Javert made a choked sound in the back of his throat, thrusting his hips forward, desperate for more friction. Heeding the wordless plea, Valjean unfastened the trousers and freed Javert’s arousal from its confines. He began stroking gently, his movements growing surer as he felt him harden in his hand. The brilliant heat burnt them both; neither drew back.

The expression of unguarded, blissful rapture on Javert’s face should not make him want to hold the man forever, to whisper a thousand sweet senseless things in his ear, to go to sleep at his side and wake up in his arms. This simple expression should not affect him thus, yet he could not stop himself from engraving it in the most treasured depth of his memory. A stream of sounds escaped Javert’s lips unbidden, moans and whines and gasps that were the best rewards for his labours. He had, in truth, nothing to guide him in this novel task but Javert’s reactions. It was enough.

Valjean was startled from his intent study of Javert’s features by a soft question carried upon an even softer exhale of breath. “What if we are caught?”

“You talk too much.” He stifled Javert’s protests with a kiss. He had never been inclined towards recklessness, but it was far, far too late for them to stop now.

Despite his rebuttal, the possibility rooted itself in his mind. The knowledge that anyone might walk in on their exertions at any moment led to an extreme awareness of his surroundings that was both frightening and exhilarating. He registered every murmur of the wind, every rise and fall of Javert’s chest, every twitch and jerk whenever he brushed a particularly sensitive spot, and all these only heightened his excitement. Javert, too, was subject to the arousing effects of danger, and his moans became quieter, though with much greater urgency.

Valjean did not shy away from the fingers that worked furiously at the fastener of his trousers, his own hand gliding back and forth along Javert’s length with increasing speed, a sense of great anxiety driving them both. It took a monumental effort to stop himself from constantly turning at the slightest noise; his heart felt close to bursting in his throat. He buried his face in Javert’s neck to muffle the groan provoked by a calloused thumb caressing the head of his prick, an almost coy, teasing touch. He had never known another’s hand on himself like this—had hardly known his own except in his youth—and this one touch almost unraveled him. The hesitancy lasted barely a second before they were stroking and squeezing each other at a frantic tempo, as if in a race to bring the other to completion first. Valjean, having the unfair advantage of an early start, won.

Javert bit down on Valjean’s shoulder to smother his cry as he came, shuddering and collapsing forward. Valjean held the limp, pliant body of the man who had pursued him through the years, and could feel nothing but affection; not a seed of hatred or vengeance was to be found. He kissed the chafed skin of Javert’s neck tenderly, then thrust into Javert’s large fist for another couple minutes before he too knew for the first time the euphoria of consummation. His spirit soared; strange as it might seem, in the arms of his hunter, he felt free of all earthly chains.

They exchanged languid kisses as the heady rush of pleasure gradually receded, leaving them with a warm contentment.

“Man can change,” Valjean whispered against Javert’s lips, “and man is also capable of love.”

“Love?” Javert whispered back.

“Yes. Do not deny this, for your sake and mine, Javert,” Valjean pleaded with his eyes, “Why else have you not stopped me—stopped us?”

“I do not know,” Javert said, unused to admitting ignorance or uncertainty. It was his duty to know the intrigues and mysteries of Paris, yet it seemed that he did not even know himself. “How could you… _love_ …after all that had been done to you? Or rather, that _I_ had done to you?”

“I do not know,” Valjean echoed, “But I do know that it is a gift from God, and I shall cherish it with all that I am.” And with a final brush of lips, Jean Valjean released Inspector Javert.

They dressed in silence.

“If I survive this—” he raised a hand to halt Javert’s interruption, “if I survive this, you will find me at No. 7 Rue de l’Homme Armé, and you may then do with me as you please. Let us bring this exhausting chase to a conclusion, Javert. Whatever your choice, I will submit. Now go! We have lingered far too long already.” And so saying, he bent to pick up the gun from where it had fallen on the floor and fired a harmless shot into the darkening sky.

Seeing Javert still had not moved, he repeated urgently, “Go!”

“Promise me you will leave this place alive, Valjean. Promise me, and I will go.” Javert’s tone brooked no argument. He appeared to have regained some measure of his former self during Valjean’s little speech of unconditional surrender.

“…You know I cannot do that, Javert.”

“Then come with me. Or I shall stay.”

Valjean was simultaneously touched and frustrated. “Have you lost your mind? If you stay, your death would be an inevitability.”

Javert quirked his bruised lips. “Death is an inevitability to all men, Valjean. Surely you, in your infinite wisdom, must know this?”

Valjean borrowed patience from the stars. “I will try. I will try my very best, Monsieur Javert. You have my sacred promise.” And he began walking back towards the barricade without glancing behind him.

When he turned around at the mouth of the alleyway, it was once again deserted. He breathed a quick prayer to God, then rejoined the ranks of the revolutionaries, amongst which Marius was one.

He prayed he would see Javert again.

**Author's Note:**

> I will bake you a million cookies if you give me a better summary. Serious. Please.


End file.
